Touristic village

Under the orange rooftop tiles the night
moves differently for every house, but still
the walls all sigh and windows cry the same,
and morning damp can try to hide the shame
but won’t succeed. The village shivers on,
awaiting the return of day, as dawn
might make the roof tiles stop from shaking.
See, in the Sun light streets look fine again
but doomed the stranger who wants shelter.
This place was left by humans long ago
before developers took over. Now
there’s only greed and profit seeking here,
falsely smiling at the tourists’ wallets.
The houses want to close their shutters one
by one, but have to watch how plastic chairs
are filling up the squares, and feel the litter
piling up against the ancient walls, and cry.


Comments on: "Touristic village" (6)

  1. Sure is the story of our times. I like how you’ve given the old a kind of eternal life.

  2. This is a sad truth, but a very good poem describing it all. L&H xx

  3. Even in Terschelling this is happening? Is nowhere safe from plastic chairs, garbage and greed? Your eulogy for the passing of authenticity is perfect Ina…

    • Thank you John! Well, there is a bit of it here of course, but compared to other places, it is not so bad πŸ™‚

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